Excerpt from The Velveteen Daughter by Laurel D. Huber, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Thank God there aren't any of those minefields to navigate with Lorenzo. Still, I should have realized that my hopes for a day alone would be futile when he appeared first thing this morning—I should have known that it was only a matter of time before his mother showed up.

Lorenzo burst into the apartment, vibrating with that matchless energy of youth, and planted himself in my kitchen. A bright pinwheel, spinning even when sitting still. His mother didn't feel like cooking, he said, she'd told him he could help himself to some Wheaties. He looked at me sheepishly then, not wanting to ask. "Scrambled eggs and cinnamon toast sound okay?" I said, and he grinned. While I fixed his breakfast he chattered about his great plans. It's the start of Labor Day weekend today—naturally, he's determined to cram in all the last-minute adventure he can before school begins.

It's a miracle that Pamela produced such a solid, uncomplicated child. He shows none of the fragile jumpiness of his parents. Not that I ever knew Robert very well, but he was a type. And Lorenzo is not at all that type. He's blessedly normal. He likes the sorts of things most boys his age like, sports and model airplanes and listening to Boston Blackie on the radio. And roller-skating. "It's swell, Grams, you should try it!" he tells me. Well, I'm tempted. With the gas rationing going on, the streets aren't nearly so busy these days as they used to be. Lorenzo goes down to the financial district on weekends, when it's all but abandoned. He and his friends can skate right in the middle of the road all the way from Wall Street and Broadway past the New York Stock exchange and Broad Street and never have to dodge an automobile!

Lorenzo finished his breakfast and ran off to meet his friends for a swimming party at McCarren Park. He seems to have a great many friends. They all call him Larry, or sometimes "Red," which irritates Pamela no end. But what twelve-year-old boy—what boy at all—wants to be called Lorenzo?

When Pamela showed up a few hours later, I sighed inwardly as I told her, all cheerful, that I'd make us some tea, thinking, How does this happen. She's seemed so much better in the last year or so. I was sure it had to do with the fact she was out in the world for a change—doing her bit in the war effort, volunteering at the Department of Censorship. It's the perfect job for her, translating letters in the Italian Division. Francesco and I've often talked about how good it's been for her, for her confidence, to see that she's needed, that she has skills to offer that have nothing to do with art.

Well, I suppose I've done the talking. Francesco has been mostly silent on the subject. He's glad, of course that Pamela's stronger. At least she seemed to be. But—he won't say this to me, I know—he's dying to get her painting again. Would strong-arm her if he could.

I put the tea things down, talking all the while about Lorenzo's visit, his plans for the weekend. The only response from Pamela was a slight nod. She stared at her teacup with that serious thinking expression of hers, her eyebrows drawn together in a way that, since she was a child, has always made us exclaim, "There – Pamela's at it again!" Only now it's a bit harder to read. She always had strong, dark eyebrows that almost met over her nose and now they are gone. Completely erased. I do wish she hadn't shaved them off. It gives her such a fixed look, a false sophistication.

I will say this, though, the penciled lines are beautifully done. If anyone can draw in a perfect eyebrow, it's Pamela.

She started up again about painting. I must try…I want to…I can see the images so clearly…my childhood. And somewhere amongst all the talk she wondered aloud, as if it were something she'd just thought of, something that had never occurred to her before, that she supposed her childhood had ended that day in Turin. Yet another bad sign, that ancient story. I had no energy for it. We had both, in our own ways, returned to it too many times.

Excerpted from The Velveteen Daughter by Laurel D Huber. Copyright © 2017 by Laurel D Huber. Excerpted by permission of She Writes Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.